


To Dream of Mushrooms

by Vita_S_West



Category: Endeavour (TV), Inspector Morse (TV)
Genre: Cooking, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Mushrooms, Peak Married Old Couple Behaviour, Walks In The Woods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:02:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23634304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vita_S_West/pseuds/Vita_S_West
Summary: It was in the evenings following the rainfall, after the rush of the day, that Max would take full advantage to wander the woods, scouring for mushrooms. Morse would pretend not to enjoy the fresh air or Max’s meandering pace and offer insight on whatever topic occupied him on that given day.
Relationships: Max DeBryn/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 14
Kudos: 33





	To Dream of Mushrooms

**Author's Note:**

> pls never eat a wild mushroom without like copious research and absolute, absolute certainty that it is safe. caution is the better part of valour and all.
> 
> without further disclaimer, pls enjoy:

In _Plant Lore_ , published in 1884, Richard Folkard wrote, “To dream of mushrooms denotes fleeting happiness, to dream you are gathering them, fickleness in a lover or consort.” Max DeBryn, however, was well-versed in the fickleness of Morse, his love and consort, as well as his many constancies. Time had allowed them to established a familiarity that was as deep and wide as any network of mycelium. 

The Oxfordshire rain of late spring and early summer brought a particular kind of treat for Max, one that he was reticent to enjoy too loudly, lest it annoy or anger Morse. While the rain brought Max pleasures, it brought Morse discontent and pain. With the change of humidity and atmospheric pressure, Morse’s leg would worsen. The old injury would offer a new and painful greeting, marring and slowing his gait. Max could tell rain was coming when Morse’s already short temper abbreviated further—a short story becoming a synopsis—and when he would sit at the kitchen table in the morning, rubbing his leg before he even raised coffee to his lips.

For Max, the rain was good for two reasons. His garden would be nourished and he wouldn’t have to lug around watering can after watering can under the blazing sun for hours on end. It also brought to the surface, the fruiting bodies of mushrooms, which sprang up overnight across surrounding woods, fields and yards.

It was a strange mix of pleasures announced by the unpleasantness of Morse’s pain. Still, he would always come along, even when Max never outright invited him. Max would simply begin to get ready and Morse, whether he was in the middle of talking or the crossword, would follow.

It was in the evenings following the rainfall, after the rush of the day, that Max would take full advantage to wander the woods, scouring for mushrooms. Morse would pretend not to enjoy the fresh air or Max’s meandering pace and offer insight on whatever topic occupied his thoughts on that given day. 

They walked at what Max called an amateur mycologist’s pace. It was a distracted meander with numerous pauses and intermissions to examine the ground and the trees surrounding them for mushrooms. With Morse’s leg in its state, it was the perfect speed.

Max’s gaze scoured the ground, taking special care at the base of larches and spruces, he would occasionally rush off the path and crouch down to examine a specimen. From time to time he would pluck one, dust dirt from it, and transfer it to a brown paper bag. Meanwhile Morse would either look on, bemused, but grateful for a break. Or he would keep walking at his slow, steady pace, knowing that Max would catch up. They moved like elastic bound them together, loosening and then pulling taut as Max foraged and caught up, as they weaved through the trees.

Max enjoyed mushrooms partly for this practical reason of enjoying the woods with Morse on an evening walk, while Morse could still express his cantankerousness and irritation with his own leg. Max also enjoyed mushrooms for his own reasons. Because they were nature’s version of waste not, want not. They burrowed through soil and rotting wood, taking decay and spinning new life and new growth.

On one evening, Max and Morse wandered through the lush woods not long after the rain stopped and birdsong began anew, interrupted by the steady, _thudding_ drip of rainwater still drifting downward from leaf to leaf to soil. There was still a misty coolness to the damp air, as the sky above transitioned from from a pink grey to darker and darker still.

“You know,” Morse said, breaking the silence, pulling Max’s eyes from the ground to his. “It was said that the War of Austrian Succession was caused by a mushroom.”

“That’s quite ambitious of them. Perhaps someone ought to warn Queen Liz around here,” Max said.

Morse rolled his eyes. “Charles VI, the Holy Roman Emperor, may have died from eating a death cap mushroom.”

“Bad luck for the Austrians,” Max said.

“I suppose that’s poison for you,” Morse said. “Something so small being so dangerous.”

“De minimis non curat rex,” Max mused. _The king does not care about the smallest things._

Morse snorted.

At that point, a blushing wood mushroom caught Max’s eye and he strayed from the path. He heard Morse sigh and slow his step. Max left the young ones whose greyish-brown caps were still spherical, but pulled a mature specimen with a flatter cap. Beneath its cap, its gills were starting to brown. A sign of its aging, but it could still reap spores.

Morse looked on. “And how do you know that one is safe,” Morse said, some disapproval in his voice.

“No mushroom is poisonous to touch,” Max said. “Unless you were planning on having a nibble,” he added. He returned to Morse’s side and they continued on their leisurely way.

Morse nodded at the dirt on Max’s fingers. “A grubby hobby.” 

“I could readily say the same about you.” Max reached for Morse’s hand with a grin. Morse grumbled and attempted to shrug and then swat him off. The silent squabble ended in compromise with Morse’s clean hand resting on the crook of Max's arm.

Often when Max foraged, he brought home a few choice specimens, and laid them down on some paper to collect spore patterns to help identify the species. His own detective work, he would tell Morse. 

It was when they took a trail that they did not usually wander down that they stumbled on an edible mushroom. Pulling Morse off the side of the small clearing, he bent over a handful of horse mushrooms. Morse grumbled that the damp grass was getting his shoes wet and watched Max examine them, bent so low that he was nearly eye-level. Max confirmed that they were not a similar-looking, inedible yellow-stainer mushroom, which yellowed when touched. They were hardly a truffle or a morel, but to Max, they were a gem all the same.

“What do you think, Morse?” Max said.

“What? More spores? You’d think last week’s specimens would be enough to quell this fad,” he said.

“No, for a snack.”

“A snack?” Morse echoed.

“They’re no morels, but a bit of butter and some salt, I think they would go nicely with the kidneys in the fridge.”

“You want to _eat_ that?”

“Unless you’re worried we’d cause a war of succession,” Max said with a smirk.

“Are you _trying_ to poison me? Murder me?” Morse demanded incredulously.

“If I wanted to do that I’d have done it years ago,” Max said. “And I’d have smothered you with a pillow. For all the snoring.” He began to collect them, pulling at the stems and transferring them to another brown paper bag.

“How do you _know_ they won’t kill us?”

Max said, “I know what I’m doing.”

Morse did not look convinced and he remained that way during the remainder of the walk and the drive home. When they arrived home, Max expected him to put his feet up and turn on some opera. Instead, Morse followed him to the kitchen, continuing to express his concerns.

“I’m not going to eat pounds of them. They’ll just be a little snack.”

“Are you absolutely sure they’re not poison,” Morse protested. “You were telling me on our last walk that some mushrooms could not be identified from other mushrooms without putting them under a microscope.”

“Completely certain,” Max said. He began to clean them, but Morse did not stop his anxious hovering.

“I’ll put an ambulance on hold, shall I?” he said, irritably.

“Ta,” Max said. He put a frying pan on the stove and added butter. He was about to cut the mushrooms up when Morse snatched them away, scooping the small pile into his hands.

“What are you doing?” Max asked with a sigh, his hands on his hips.

“You’ll get yourself killed!” Morse said. Mushrooms still in hand he turned on his heel and left the kitchen.

With another irritable sigh, Max followed him.

“That’s my after-dinner snack,” he said.

“It’s your last meal, more like!”

Max followed Morse to the front yard where he opened the door. Max realized he was actually about to throw them out. 

“Stop that!” he ordered.

“Do you have a death wish?” Morse snapped, but he didn’t toss them.

“Does this actually bother you so much?” Max demanded, brow furrowed.

“Yes! Do you have any idea how many people die from eating the wrong mushroom?”

“Do you? Do you have no confidence in my taxonomic ability?”

Morse didn’t say anything for a moment, suddenly aware he’d left the kitchen only to find himself on very thin ice. “It’s not that!”

“Well?”

Max raised an eyebrow and Morse pursed his lips.

“Do you really think I would put anything in my cooking pan unless I was absolutely certain that it was safe to? Do you think I would put either of us at risk? You're always getting shot at at work, do you think I'd poison you at home?”

Morse looked less certain the more Max spoke. He stood there in silence for another minute before closing the door and handing Max the mushrooms, as good as a silent apology as he was ever going to offer.

“Thank you,” Max said. Turning back to the kitchen he added over his shoulder, “Besides, we ate wild morels earlier this month and didn’t die. In fact, you quite liked them, I recall.”

“We _what_?"


End file.
